


Life's True Cost

by BetweenSkyAndSea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Animal Transformation, Body Horror, Children of Characters, Crests (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), F/M, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, Rating May Change, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22626007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenSkyAndSea/pseuds/BetweenSkyAndSea
Summary: Twenty-five years have passed since the war. Mysterious conditions plague the rulers of Almyra and of Fódlan.Desperate to find a cure, Claude von Riegan will try anything once.Post-Azure Moon route.[Claudeleth-centric]
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 22
Kudos: 52





	1. The Toll of Time

_ Great Tree Moon, 1220 _

Daily rituals had overtaken Claude’s life. 

Small and raucous palace wyverns, less than a quarter of the size of their wartime cousins, greeted the sun each morning, and served as his alarm clock. However, even the pleasant heat of the Almyran summer did nothing to ease the ever-present ache in his bones or the electric pain of battle scars earned nearly half a lifetime ago.

The Almyran King slipped from the comfort of his bed with a groan, stuffing his feet into slippers. He steadied himself on the intricately carved cane he’d had to rely on for the past few years, and issued a heavy sigh to the cavernous, lonely room. With a tremendous effort, he shuffled his worn body to the terrace to greet the sun.

Observing the palace gardens from his private terrace had always been a welcome morning ritual. The palms swayed gently in the cool morning breeze, and the aroma of gardenia that filled his lungs was sweet and intoxicating. Laying out his mat, he took his time stretching what was left of his sinewy muscles, wincing as his joints cracked and popped up and down his spine, his hips, his legs and feet. 

He groaned again as he reached toward his toes, rotating his head this way and that. Another cascade of clicking. He sighed. This existence was tiresome.

The large doors to his chamber opened and a familiar figure sauntered through, cradling a wooden box to their torso.

“Moooorning,” came a familiar drawl.

Since taking up residence as Claude’s Royal Physician, Linhardt had taken to wearing his slippery dark green hair up in a messy bun at the back of his head, obstinately against an undercut despite the ever-present heat. It didn't matter, really, Claude liked his hair the way it was. It had just been fun to bicker.

He was early. Yet another ritual had begun.

“... You didn’t sleep last night, did you?” Claude asked when they met at the small dining table, carefully taking a seat in one of the plushly appointed chairs.

“Mmm, nope,” he gave Claude an overly-tired but pretty smile. “I found a _very_ interesting tome stashed in a half-rotten crate and couldn’t tear myself away,” Lin began, lifting a tray from the box.

The scholar set out the usual array of syringes and vials, patiently waiting for Claude to offer his arm across the cold marble tabletop. He wiped an alcohol-dampened square of cotton along the inside of Claude’s lower arm and took up the first of the vials as it dried, drawing out careful doses. Claude winced at the stinging pinch of the first needle under the skin, and the cold-to-hot feel of the concoction dispersing through his body.

Linhardt continued, “It seems promising, but I think we’ll have to go over it together. My skill in translating written Almyran is still shaky _anyway_ , and most of it was downright archaic.”

“You’re making me jealous,” Claude said upon hearing of Linhardt’s exploits in the palace catacombs. It reminded Claude of some of the best parts of his childhood: wandering by himself, learning how to pick locks, scale walls and uncover secrets. 

After Linhardt’s arrival, he and the scholar had descended to the ruins twice before Claude had grown too weak to keep up.

“Let’s review the text tonight,” he offered with a gentle smile that was quickly erased by the sting of another injection.

It was frustrating--they were the same age, yet… here he was, almost as feeble as his Fódlani grandfather had been before he’d passed away. 

They discussed some of the finer details of Linhardt’s discoveries while the physician administered each dose. He insisted with a grimace of disgust that Claude wipe the small dots of blood on his arm before he applied a bandage. Setting a small hourglass on the table between them, Lin observed Claude for the duration, taking note of his pulse and demeanor and various other mysterious metrics while they exchanged pleasantries. Claude was glad of the company. 

“How do you feel?” Linhardt asked when the last of the sand had dropped to the bottom.

“Mmm. Hungry?”

“...Oh? Wonderful. I’ll tell your attendant to send breakfast in.” Linhardt packed up the small medical kit, cleaning as he went. “I wish I could just give you some of this,” he said, patting the small belly he’d earned while living at the palace. He’d still didn’t eat much, but he’d become very fond of rich Almyran dishes.

“...I like your body.”

“I do too. Believe me, I’m not complaining,” he said with his typical confidence. Yet a small frown appeared on his face, and he pressed a palm to Claude’s cheek. Linhardt’s casual, genuine affection was very welcome. “It confounds me that despite all my tinkering, food just won’t stick to your bones.”

Claude sighed. Yes, yes. He knew. 

“Relax before taking court this afternoon. Please. I increased the potency on one of your serums, it may take a few days for you to adjust. If it makes you woozy, just sleep it off. If anything… weirder than that happens, just have someone wake me.”

Claude narrowed his eyes. “Weird like...?”

“Your skin exuding steam, the whites of your eyes turning purple, growing horns, you know… _weird_.”

Claude couldn’t help but smirk.

It wasn’t until after he’d filled his belly with a light breakfast and a pot of tea that Claude began to feel the disorienting effects that Linhardt had warned about. He’d planned on reading but it seemed an afternoon nap loomed ahead of him.

After some hours an attendant woke to help him bathe and dress as befit his station. Looking in the mirror was a painful reminder of this strange curse he had acquired. He didn’t mind the shock of silver hair his malady had earned him--he thought it looked rather dashing with his tan skin and green eyes--but the gaunt face in the reflection was one he recognized less and less with each passing day. He’d been handsome and able-bodied. He thanked his attendant quietly and together they went to the throne room.

The pomp and circumstance required to be king was so exhausting.

A dozen elegant court wyverns roosted around the open throne room, and his own beast trilled at him from the perch behind the throne. The white wyvern hopped down, tipping its broad snout close.

The Almyran King leaned his slight weight against the beast and it pressed gently back. How he wished they could take a ride around the city’s charming skyline, but he had grown too frail even for that. He was grateful he could still walk.

As the list of guests grew shorter, Linhardt appeared between appointments to take his vitals.

“The specimen for your next serum is due to arrive this afternoon,” he said, in the middle of taking Claude’s pulse. 

“Specimen?” Claude’s brows drew together. He filed through his memory for any recollection of that conversation but found there was none. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall,” Claude said. Linhardt frowned deeply and patted his hand.

“Ah,” it was a worried noise, “That _can_ be a side effect of your treatments. _Or_ you’re just going senile,” he teased. By the crooked expression on his face, Claude knew he was doing calculations on the spot, taking mental notes to readjust the dosages. “Anyway. It’s no matter, you’ll see soon enough.”

The rest of Claude’s obligations rolled through with little fanfare.

_If I ever want to retire I need to finish reforming this country. But where will I find the energy?_

Dimitri and Byleth had worked diligently to complete the reformation of Fódlan after the war, and it was a shining example.

Indeed, the three of them had worked together to break down the physical and _some_ of the societal walls between Fódlan and Almyra; the trade routes they’d opened had allowed Almyra’s economy to reach new heights in the last twenty five years.

Those years spent with friends were some of his most treasured.

Dimitri’s letter was still awaiting a reply. His health had also been on the decline. Claude vaguely wished to some even vaguer god that neither of them would die soon.

Finally, the last appointment of the day--the one Linhardt had reminded him of. The appearance of a heavily reinforced crate rolling into the throne room threw the court wyverns into an agitated swirl in the sky above, which in turn set the palace guards on high alert.

With a rustle of wings, Claude knew his white wyvern had taken a protective stance at his back. It clacked its jaws in a display of aggression, weaving and bobbing its head like a cobra.

Even in the midst of the bloodiest battle, Claude had _never_ seen it this unsettled. He raised a hand, and it booped its nose to the back of his hand. “Stand down, my friend,” he said in the most comforting tone he could muster.

Amid the sudden chaos, Linhardt had returned to Claude’s side, vibrating with excitement and mild confusion. 

“Well, _that’s_ a rather large crate for a tiny little lizard. Did they send a whole _lounge_ of them?”

Linhardt’s annoyed curiosity fueled him to take the stairs two at a time, and he almost bowled into the side of the crate. Had it… growled at him? From his seat on the throne Claude watched as his physician spoke with the couriers and the guards, trying to allay his confusion. They flipped a small wooden hatch open and an unholy noise shrieked through the narrow iron bars, reverberating through the hall.

The sound was reminiscent of the demonic beasts the Edelgard had deployed on Garreg Mach and instilled a skin-prickling, ill feeling. 

The palace wyverns screamed and flitted about in retaliation, even his own bonded wyvern joined in, bellowing in his ear. _Lovely_. They were terrified enough to make such a racket, but none of them were brave enough to approach.

Though he’d flinched at the initial screech, Linhardt peered through the slats into the box without a shred of fear. It hissed and bashed at the iron bars but he was not deterred. He made a face of surprise, nodding to himself before speaking to the couriers a moment more. 

With some huffing and puffing, Linhardt jogged back up the stairs to carefully help the King down one step at a time, cane in hand. He wore an extra smug little smile.

“Buying things on the black market is always somewhat risky, but I understand why they wanted so much now. I thought it was odd they wanted so much for a lizard.”

“ _Linhardt_ , how much did you spend?”

“It was in the allocated budget for your care,” he waved Claude’s concern away. “It’s all for the effort of healing you, after all. Though this was an... unexpected acquisition, I think you’ll find it _most_ interesting.”

From a distance he leaned forward on his cane, tip-toeing to peer inside. Claude was not as brave as Linhardt had been, but his curiosity got the best of him.

“It’s--ah-- _they_ are restrained, it’s safe to approach,” Linhardt encouraged. Claude still stepped forward shakily, and wished he could blame his trembling limbs on his condition.

From where he stood, a humanoid figure rustled around inside. Surely, it was not human. Something whipped around in the shadows behind it. _Definitely_ not human. His skin prickled with cold fear.

Claude advanced again, close enough for his shadow to cross the bars of the crate. The captive growled with a timbre deep enough to feel in his _bones_.

They swung their visage upwards, partially obscured by a fluffy shock of pale hair. What exactly was he looking at? Small horns crested back from its forehead, but it was the creature’s eyes that captivated Claude. 

The humanoid was _very_ female and _very_ nude, filthy and shackled. By the marks on her wrists, she had been like this for a long time. How infuriating. The pupils of her large eyes dilated, darting over his features as it analyzed him. 

A flash of recognition passed between them and his heart jumped into his throat when she drew closer still. 

Scales covered her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, but her sweet face was unmistakable. Unforgettable. Who had done this to her? It was utterly unforgivable. He would gladly shoulder the wear of another century on his body if it would undo the curse on his treasured ally. 

Claude’s voice crackled with emotion as he called out to the occupant in the box. 

“Well, my friend. It seems we’ve both seen brighter days.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Garland Moon, 1206**

“Claude!”

It had taken her a while to notice him, leaning against the doorway between the Archbishop’s office and the reception room. 

The way she said his name would always be sweet to his ears. There was paperwork littered all over her desk, and despite how obviously tired she was, she was glowing with happiness upon noticing him.

“How are you? Ready to have this baby? Where are the husbands?” he babbled curiously, making his way to her desk. Garreg Mach would likely be a strange, cold monolith tucked in the mountains for as long as it stood, but at least the people here, the people he loved, were warm.

“I’m as well as expected,” she sighed, a smile on her face all the same. “They’re out hunting,” she said. He dipped to embrace her, they traded kisses on the cheek. Had her eyes always been so vividly _green_ ? He hated that so many moons often passed between them that he forgot details about his friends. The Academy had been a wonderfully soft period in their lives, but he was proud of the world they’d made and did not wish to go back. “I am _very_ ready to be done with this.”

“Still working even though you’re so close to term?” he asked, draping himself on one of the plushly upholstered wing chairs set in front of her expansive desk.

“I’m pregnant, not _dying_ ,” she scoffed, downing the last of her tea and shifting in her seat with a wince. Despite the snappy comeback, she was in the late stage of pregnancy that seemed _deeply_ uncomfortable. 

He smirked at that comment but it was a wistful thing. If the child she was carrying was _his_ , he’d wait on her hand and foot, even though she was obviously the type to reject that kind of treatment. It only made him want to dote on her more.

Gods, what was he thinking, indulging in such nonsense? A thirty-two year old man, acting like he was still a teen with a crush on his teacher? It was almost a lifetime ago, yet he still--

Byleth rang a bell, and when an attendant appeared, she said, “Please, bring tea for two.” 

“I keep thinking about your letter.”

“Oh?” Byleth perked up.

“I have a _million_ questions.” 

Her eyes sparkled. She’d baited him and of course, _of course,_ he’d taken it. She was the one person in this world he could never refuse. 

“So... no more monastery?”

Byleth nodded and seemed relieved to share her plans aloud. “ _No more monastery_. Flayn and I have already begun to train the next Archbishop, and she’s old enough now to guide my successor while I take care of the baby.”

Claude hummed. He’d gleaned some particularly interesting tidbits about Flayn while they were at the Officers Academy. Before he decided to reveal what he knew or keep it to himself, a wide tray with a teapot, two delicate cups and a tower filled with finger foods arrived; Claude helped clear space.

Byleth stood to pour tea for the two of them. When Claude balked, she said, “No, _please_ . Let me. Let me feel useful. How are you _worse_ than Dimitri?”

That made him laugh.

The hot teacup felt good on his hands, still chilled from a long trip on his wyvern. They ate quietly--he was hungrier than he’d realized.

“After the baby arrives, I’ll play nursemaid until the baby is strong enough to walk. And then? Who knows. Perhaps I’ll travel the world.”

“Come away with me.”

Claude’s tone was as earnest as he could muster--the first time he’d made such a request of her, shortly after they’d reconnected post-war, she’d laughed, thinking it was a joke. He’d nursed his emotional wounds for months after that, but felt better when a letter on Garreg Mach Monastery stationery arrived with an apology and an invitation to visit. No politics, no responsibilities, just… them.

Byleth gave him an exasperated face he’d seen at least a half dozen times since that first rejection. “‘ _Come away with you’_ and do what? Be your bride? Your _queen_?” she scoffed. “I will not marry.”

That had always been her answer.

No matter who proposed, she rejected them all. Kings, nobles and knights alike--after the war, she’d been highly sought after for a political marriage. However, very few of her suitors had seen her for _her_ and that pissed him off. She’d told him all about it, the best and the worst.

However a no was a no, so he had to squash his feelings for her back down into a crevasse, somewhere between his stomach and his spleen.

Claude must’ve looked more disappointed than he intended to show, for a softness appeared on her flawless porcelain face. “...I’ll visit Almyra first,” Byleth assured, reaching for his hand across the desk.

The tone she’d used was more intimate than he expected, and he felt his cheeks grow hot.

“I’ll hold you to it,” he answered simply, trying his best to appear unaffected.

Their enjoyable mid-afternoon lunch date was interrupted by an earnest, triumphant echo of laughter. “Ah, they’re back,” Byleth perked up.

The Kings of Faerghus entered the Archbishop’s office. Claude set his teacup down and rose to meet them. Dimitri gathered him in a warm hug. 

“Your Kingliness! You look well,” he smiled warmly. “How was the hunt?”

“As do you. Thank you for coming, my friend,” Dimitri smiled warmly as they parted. “We’ll have venison for dinner.”

He was passed along to Dedue for another hug, and the four chatted for some time.

Well, the _three_ of them chatted--Dedue was and would always be reserved, friendly though he was. After the war, Dimitri had proposed to Byleth and Dedue had been there to pick him up after she rejected him. Their wedding had been a small, intimate affair, and Claude was grateful for the invitation.

Claude couldn’t help but let his mind wander during lulls in conversation.

Oh, to be Dimitri and Dedue. His imagination taunted him with a flicker of the nights the three must’ve spent together in the effort to secure a child, and it was difficult _not_ to be jealous, _especially_ knowing that she’d rejected Dimitri’s hand in marriage but still accepted… this.

Dedue excused himself to prepare their meal, kissing Dimitri’s forehead before he left. 

It was awkward, watching Dimitri interact with Byleth. Claude could tell he wanted her just as _he_ wanted her, to dote and relish her with affection. But she wanted none of it and began to steam slightly when Dimitri became overly familiar. After a light, poorly concealed argument, they moved to the terrace to take in the sun. 

The venison Dedue had prepared was exquisite, but his carefully baked Duscuran berry tart was abandoned when Byleth screamed with the first stabs of labor.

* * *

**Great Tree Moon, 1220**

“She’s in pain,” Claude winced, leaning heavily on his cane as he wiped the moisture that had collected in the corners of his eyes with his thumb. “Medicate her, _now_ ,” he ordered, his voice echoing in the cavernous chamber. 

The order sent Linhardt’s assistants into a tizzy, and the most senior scurried over to double check dosages and brainstorm how to administer the damn drug to her.

Claude watched her snarl and pace, dread unfurling in his stomach. Could such monstrous magic be undone?

No one deserved this, especially not _his_ friend.

Dust shimmered in the light that streamed through the glass windows overhead, and her scales glittered like perfectly cut gems. The cage she was kept in had once been used to keep exotic animals for fighting pits, a cultural pastime that had long fallen out of favor; most of the colosseums across Almyra had since crumbled to dust. It was spacious enough, large enough to fit basic human necessities--a bed, a table and a chamberpot and plenty of room to spare--but it was still a cage. 

She deserved better than this.

“Easier said than done,” Linhardt sighed, watching as his assistants tried to interact with the half-humanoid creature they were _fairly_ sure was Byleth. He barked an order and one of them scuttled off to retrieve medication. “I’m not even certain that what I have on hand will _work_ on her. She isn’t quite human anymore.”

Claude’s body ached from the effort of making it down to the catacombs. He’d refused to be carried, a completely undignified luxury, but perhaps tomorrow he’d let the guards tote him around. “Bring me a seat.”

A stool was provided, and Claude grumbled as he eased himself onto it.

“We’ve tried making her decent, but…clothes won't fit her lower half, and to be frank, she’s far too wild to risk approaching without a barrier.” Linhardt gestured in exasperation at Byleth, who had reared up on wyvern-like hind legs to intimidate his staff on the other side of the room. 

Claude hummed, listening as Linhardt continued to run down the list of their discoveries. Claude’s horror intensified at what had happened to his beloved ally now he was able to see her more plainly.

Her mane of pale hair was a tangle that ran down between her shoulder blades and hung heavily to one side, her spine elongated and flexible. Her ribcage had grown deep like a saluki, but she… still had breasts and a shockingly human face, her forehead crowned with nubby horns. How cruel. Her wyvern-like tail was as long as she was tall, but not particularly strong looking, whipping behind her as she paced the length of the cage on her elongated limbs. She snarled and hissed at Linhardt’s assistants any time they came too close for comfort, occasionally slamming the heavy iron grating with her hand talons.

Not only had she been transmuted by a curse or the hand of some evil, by the thick scars that marred her wrists and ankles, she had been kept as a prisoner for a long time. Men were already cruel to one another; his mind touched on how they might be even crueler to someone seen as semi-human and he had to push the thought away.

“Byleth,” he called out softly.

The pointed tips of her ears twitched and she turned to regard him like a cat, leaving her prey behind. His pulse quickened at the focus she gave him, and Linhardt inhaled audibly when Byleth began her approach, obviously as thrilled as Claude.

On all fours she strutted toward their side of the cage, and languorously rubbed her flank against the bars like a tame tiger seeking affection. 

“That _is_ you, isn’t it?” Claude said. She was unable to reply in kind but her eyes had grown soft, her pupils large and round. 

“... Professor,” Linhardt addressed her, and was rewarded with a tilt of her head. Excited glances were exchanged between physician and King.

“Professor, I’m sorry you’re in pain. We’re fixing medicine for you right now, you’ll be ready for a nice long nap in no time.”

She stared vapidly. Perhaps she wasn’t in there at all?

But Byleth did not stay still for long. One of Linhardt’s assistants in particular seemed to draw her attention in a negative way, and Claude watched raptly as she stalked them, her eyes reverting to that cold, wyvern-like state. Why? 

Claude cleared his throat obnoxiously and and all eyes turned to the King. “I want to speak to her. Alone.” 

“Your Majesty, it isn’t safe to be alone with her,” the assistant who had raised Claude’s suspicions piped up. 

“I’m not going inside,” he waved their concern away. 

They had decided the best way to administer the pain medication was by pressing the prescribed tablets into small cubes of semi-soft cheese, and now it would be Claude’s job to get her to consume them.

Once they’re well and truly alone, he dragged the stool near bars, close enough to reach through. He’s withering at an accelerated rate anyway; if Byleth is the one to end him, then... so be it.

“I’ve got a snack for ya,” he said quietly, mustering his kindest voice as he reached through the bars. “Sorry we have to treat you like this, my friend. I don’t want… I don’t want you to feel--” his voice hitched and he willed his tears back. “Gods, this isn’t easy, By.”

She was enchanted by his voice. At least, he _thinks_ she is. “I suppose we can play catch-up,” he said lightly, offering her a smile and one of the cheese cubes on his open palm, fingers carefully tucked back as if he were feeding a horse. Claude couldn’t stop his hand from shaking. Linhardt had a better constitution for this particular situation but Claude had the stronger bond--at least, he hoped his beloved friend was still in there, somewhere.

“When was the last time we saw one another….? Nikolai’s third birthday, over a decade ago?”

She stared at him but drew close. She ignored the food entirely in favor of staring at Claude. The intensity sent a shiver down his spine. “You've _gotta_ eat this, By,” he tried, wondering if she understood. “It’s probably going to taste bad, but I want to make sure you feel, uh…”

 _Better_? When she was trapped in the dusty catacombs like this? Cage aside, her body was the true prison.

“I want you to be free of pain,” he said plainly, holding her gaze. “I don’t know how much I can do to help but I will give it my everything, by the _Gods_ I swear it.”

Dragon-like Byleth blankly considered his face a moment longer before she sniffed the offering on his palm. A long, flexible tongue slithered out to swipe it into her mouth and Claude had to do his best not to recoil. Lindhart’s warnings had _not_ prepared him for the reality of her situation.

Her teeth crushed the tablet that had been hidden inside. She made a face at what must be a very bitter taste, but swallowed it anyway. _Good_. He withdrew his hand to place another cube on his palm. Two more to go.

“Do you miss the family you made?” he recited the names slowly. “Nikolai? Dedue? Dimitri?” 

Claude observed carefully for any sign of recognition in her large, scleraless eyes, but found none. Another cube of cheese disappeared in the same manner as before, crunching loudly. The final cube of cheese made its appearance and she ate that one without much trouble, too.

“Do you… do you remember me?” with his hand still on her side he pointed to himself nervously before he added, “Uh… yanno… Claude?” 

Her eyes locked on his and she snorted with exasperated fondness.

It was an expression he’d seen hundreds of times. He laughed lightly to hold back tears and pressed his forehead against the bars.

“Tell me, Byleth,” using her name drew her attention, and she pressed in close enough he could feel the heat radiating from her. Did dragons have a higher body temperature?

“Was _this_ your retirement plan? The--ah--”

The full weight of Claude’s sadness overtook him before he could finish the poor attempt at a joke. “ _I’m_ dying, Dimitri is dying, and you’re… I…” 

Claude gasped at the feel of a hot tongue on his cheek, lazily swiping the tears he was unaware he’d been shedding. Perhaps he should be terrified, but the gesture was so tender he only cried harder. Of course life was unfair--he’d experienced that more than he’d care to revisit--but right now life was downright cruel.

With a shaky hand he cradled her cheek, knowing full well how risky this may be. She makes a small noise of surprise, recoiling only a moment before she pressed in for affection.

His face cracked in a happy smile, squeezing more moisture from his eyes. “ _Byleth_. I have missed you. Ah--”

The tip of her tongue darted out to lap his palm. Her pupils had overtaken her eyes, leaving only the slightest ring of green. It was cute, at least he considered it such until her tongue wrapped around the base of his thumb, and her mouth followed, drawing him in deep, suckling.

A flush rose to his cheeks as desire began to coil in his belly.

_This isn’t right._

Though he hoped Byleth was in there, could she even be considered sentient anymore? Before he had another moment to consider, the sharp tips of her teeth pierced his hand and she drew back to lap at the dots of blood that drew to the surface.

She smiled at him with blood stained teeth, and then the world went dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Garland Moon, 1209**

Nikolai Jeralt Blaiddyd-Molinaro was turning three years old today, and it felt like the entirety of Fodlan was joining them in celebration. For a country once plagued by disease and death, a child reaching the age of three was quite the milestone in Faerghus society. Though Dimitri had worked hard to unite the country, some traditions could not be discarded so easily--at least this one was mostly harmless, and perhaps even charming.

Of course, Claude had been nothing but supportive of his friends. However, watching their baby grow into a tiny, functioning version of two of them was strange, no matter what. 

Becoming a father had drawn Dedue out of his shell somewhat; he seemed genuinely interested in talking about Nikolai with everyone around them. Claude was glad to see it. 

Finally, it was his turn to present his gift to the court. 

The child looked so small, peering over the crowd from his perch in Dedue’s arms. His big eyes reflected the vivid green of none other than a certain Byleth Eisner, and upon recognizing Claude, Nikolai’s little face lit up. 

“ _Uncle Cwaude_!”

He was _ready_. It made Claude’s heart thrum with pride at the sense of wonder and adventure he’d already planted in the child. 

“To the Kings of Faerghus and their blessed little prince, I bring a gift that is rare indeed.”

The little one chortled with laughter; he’d always loved his uncle’s storyteller voice. Claude waited for him to get the giggles out of his system before continuing. 

A box was hoisted by one of Dimitri’s attendants to the foot of the dias. Embellished with finely inlaid geometric designs of flowers and six-point stars, it was a typical handcraft of Almyra, much sought after once the borders had been opened. 

But it wasn’t so much the box itself--a treasure in its own right--but the size and shape of it. It was easily as large as his nephew, had the child been curled up tight.

Dimitri gasped. “Claude, you can’t possibly--”

The Almyran King threw his beloved friend a wink. _Don’t spoil the presentation, my friend._

“Since ancient times the King of Almyra has always been accompanied by a wyvern blessed by the mother wyvern herself,” he continued, brandishing a small key to undo the lock on the chest. 

The announcement was more for the crowd than the boy--he’d already told Nik the story dozens of times. As he laid out each detail of the story, watching the little one put together the events that were unfolding was no less gratifying. 

“ _Wybern_ ,” Nik whispered with excitement, his eyes as large as saucers.

Carefully the lid of the hinged box was opened to reveal a swaddling of silk that concealed the true gift. He pulled the padding away to reveal a pearlescent mottled egg of wondrous size. 

Dedue set the little prince lightly on his feet, and his shaggy blonde hair swayed as he toddled to Claude and the special egg.

“To my beloved nephew, I present a wyvern’s egg of the highest caliber.”

A fearless, pudgy hand pressed to the shell, and the egg _peeped_. Nikolai squealed in delight.

“There’s a baby inside,” Claude explained in a gentle tone. The child nodded. “Can you feel them moving?” 

“Yes. I fewl dem,” Without warning Nikolai flung his arms around the egg and one could feel everyone in the room melt from how cute he was. “My baby wybern friend!”

Claude ruffled Nikolai’s hair affectionately. “May your bond be bright.”

As was tradition, the guest would be thanked for their gift and it would be moved aside so the family could receive another. Yet, even after carefully explaining the wyvern hatchling ‘wasn’t ready to play,’ Nikolai had a meltdown. Already, he did not want to be parted from his ‘new fwend’. 

Claude felt a spark of pride at that. He’d make a wyvern rider out of his nephew yet. 

“Let’s keep it close,” Dedue said quietly, obviously as distressed as his son. Nikolai was not happy until he was allowed to sit on the floor and keep one hand on the egg at all times. Claude’s work was done. 

After gracious thanks from Dimitri and Deude, he hung to the side of the room and watched as other guests came forward to meet the little prince, and to provide him with gifts for a prosperous future. 

Yet, she was missing from this future. He was sad to see her missing from the celebration. He vaguely knew the Archbishop’s own future plans--

“They make a picture-perfect family, don’t they?”

Byleth.

“There you are,” he said fondly.

Her delicate hand easily slipped into the bend of his arm. Though she spoke such bitter words, he knew she didn’t want an answer. She’d likely heard such comments all day long. 

Claude regarded his long-time friend thoughtfully, taking in the glow that motherhood had provided her. The gown she wore for the occasion was plain and matronly and did not suit her. He wondered if Dimitri had picked it out, or if she really wanted to fade into the background. 

“...You’re okay with this?”

“It is done.” Her tone was even, and she had learned to use her expressions over the years. A passerby would only see a detached but mildly pleasant expression on her face, but he could see the glint of pain in her eyes.

Claude wanted to ask a million questions; it was obvious she needed to talk. This was not the place, and he never wanted his questions to be unwelcome.

“Balcony?”

“How are you so good at reading my mind?”

“Taking care of my favorite person is my top priority.”

The squeeze she gave his bicep was all the thanks he needed. 

The level of stress she emitted was palpable. All he wanted was to soothe her. Through the crowd and away from the massive dining hall they went, winding through the equally cavernous kitchens of the castle of Fhirdiad.

Claude utilized his charm to procure a large bottle of Byleth’s favorite ale and a pair of beer mugs from a busy baker. Claude insisted the young man share a toast with them.

“I know you’re working, but a sip can’t hurt,” Claude said with a wink. After brief hesitation, a third, much smaller cup appeared. 

The King of Almyra’s charisma was near impossible to resist, and no one would dare deny the Mother of the Crown Prince of Fodlan, especially not on a day like today.

She uncorked it and immediately poured their first round, sharing the treasure with their newfound friend. 

“Cheers,” Claude offered up, the baker echoing his toast. Byleth and she toasted them back in Almyran before they knocked their cups together.

Byleth howled with delight upon taking the first sip. “ _Oh_ how I’ve missed you,” she said, staring into the half-empty mug as if the contents were liquid gold. Claude laughed. They thanked their new friend before they continued on their way.

The beer in his own cup threatened to slosh onto the floor as they dodged the staff running to and fro. They were preparing a lavish birthday feast that was too fussy for the little prince to eat, but the guests would adore.

Emerging from the stuffy kitchen, the cool, early evening air was a welcome treat. Even better, they had the little balcony all to themselves. Perfect. 

Byleth claimed their space along the railing with a firm strike of the bottle against the wide stony guardrail. They watched the comings and goings of guests in the courtyard below.

She was perhaps more reserved than usual, but was quick to top off his cup. Claude found it difficult not to press her for information. It had been many moons since they’d seen each other last, and her letters had proved lacking once Nikolai had been born. He wanted to know _everything_. He'd missed her.

“It was more difficult than I ever imagined. Not holding him, or playing with him. I was no more than a nursemaid. I _know,_ that’s what I signed up for--” she interrupted herself before Claude could, and he shut his gaping mouth. “I… _severely_ underestimated the bond between a mother and their child.”

The Almyran King stole a glance at her while she spoke. Her eyes were damp with tears, but she made no move to wipe them away, instead watching the guests mill about. 

She told him about the depression she’d felt, filling him in on all the things she’d left out in all of her letters. Dimitri and Dedue had excluded her from bonding with Nikolai, and she felt like a milkcow most days. They even had a dedicated nanny for the boy, but only because Byleth had insisted she wanted no part in raising him.

She reiterated more than once that Dimitri and Dedue had been nothing but accommodating--all of the points that had become painful were things they had negotiated long before the baby’s arrival, things she had explicitly wished to be excluded from. She was not their third spouse, and she never wanted to be. She confided she'd never wanted to be a mother either, yet... 

“They made accommodations for me but I couldn’t feel happy. I suppose I’m free from all of this, now he’s refused to feed. Yet...”

Her trail into silence spoke strongly of her regret. 

“I’m sorry, By,” he offered quietly. 

She nodded in thanks, and waved her problems away like smoke. But that smoke clung heavy to the silence between them. 

“I missed drinking,” she sighed, abandoning her empty stoneware mug on the ledge. “I missed _you_. And gods, my tits hurt.”

Claude sputtered, spraying the last of his beer as a fine mist on the evening breeze. Byleth laughed as he coughed, patting him on the back as if _he_ were the baby. 

“Still willing to host a former Archbishop?” she continued, unphased. 

Claude had to hide his shock and his pleasure. Of course he had clung to the hope that if he could show her the Almyra _he_ loved, she’d fall in love with his home country too. Perhaps she would even stay for a few moons. 

“Yes, of course. You can have a room in the palace, and you can stay as long as you’d like.”

“Maybe you can make my tits feel better.”

“Uhh? I… uh… yes. Sure,” Claude stumbled over his words, flustered for the second time this evening. 

“...You’ve been chasing me for _years_ and the best you can give me is, ‘ _uh, yes, sure’_?” Byleth laughed.

Then she kissed him. 

* * *

**Harpstring Moon, 1220**

The scent of blooming gardenia tickled his nose, and fingertips gliding against his scalp eased him from slumber. _Byleth?_ A soft moan passed his lips, and he became acutely aware of his forearm, bandaged and heavy with a dull pain. The King’s eyes fluttered open, then narrowed as they braced against the light that reflected from the marble floor of the shaded terrace he loved so much.

So, he had been relocated to his quarters. 

Once his eyes adjusted, the next thing he saw was Linhardt’s pretty face, creased with concern.

The physician’s frown softened into a smile and his voice was just as gentle. “Ah, you’re awake.”

It was a most welcome sight. He nuzzled into Linhardt’s palm. He’d once thought his heart overly full of unrequited endeavours (the majority of such endeavors began and ended with a certain Teach friend Archbishop Byleth). Yet, Linhardt proved intriguing enough to make the list.

“...How long was I out?” Claude was surprised at how raspy his voice came out as he sat up. Instead of the constant ache of age, his body hurt in a way that was... unusually nostalgic. Linhardt offered water, which Claude took graciously. 

“You’ve been comatose for the last two days,” he answered, setting the empty glass aside.

“ _Days_?” Claude questioned again, more frantic this time. “The last I remember was ah…” Claude averted his eyes at the memory of Byleth’s lips around his fingers. His tone was dry as he pushed the thought away. “She bit me.”

“She _certainly_ did,” Linhardt grimaced, then pressed, “And?” 

“And what?” 

“ _That’s_ concerning.”

That _frown_ was back. Claude found himself frowning as well. “...What _should_ I have remembered?”

“Oh _boy_.”

“ _What_?”

Linhardt sighed, then cupped Claude’s chin in his hand. The touch-starved King blushed hotly at the contact. Linhardt’s gaze was intense, different from his usual, clinical manner. They hadn’t been this familiar with each other for a long time. 

“I’m a shoddy excuse for a crest scholar if a half-beast can outthink me,” he said ruefully, wearing a neat little frown.

“Half-beast? …Don’t call Byleth that.” Claude tsked, then shook his head as if that would fill in the blanks. Linhardt was excited about whatever discovery he’d made, but without proper context it was difficult to follow the other man’s darting thought pattern. “I’m trying to stay with you, Lin, but you’re five paces ahead of me.”

“Perhaps we can run a few experiments. Apart from the… ahem, _dragoning_ , she looks like she hasn’t aged a day,” Linhardt remarked. Suddenly he was in physician mode again, leaning in to examine Claude’s eyes. He thumbed the lower lid of one and then the other, humming. He began to take Claude's pulse. 

“ _Lin_.” 

“She, mmm,” Linhardt sat back on the bed, careful as he picked up Claude’s bandaged arm. “She bleeds green, you know,” he said with a modicum of disgust, while he began to unwind the outer dressing. 

_Ichor_. Claude had read about the substance in the monastery ages ago. It was a footnote in the same book in which he’d uncovered the diagrams of the Immaculate One… the very same book he’d once shared with Byleth, before Seteth took it away to be lost forever in some secret archive. 

“...I forbade it,” said the King.

“I _refuse_ to believe that _you_ of all people are incurious about the implications of _that_.”

“The implications _are_ intriguing. But she’s--”

“Great! Then it shall please you to learn I’ve begun work on examining the compounds in her blood to see if she may prove useful,” he said, dropping the outer bandages to the marble floor. He quickly added with disgust, “Well, my assistants have. It may be _a_ different color but it’s still _blood--_ ”

“You _what_?”

“I will use the materials provided me to find you a cure,” Linhardt said plainly, meeting Claude’s eyes. “I assure you, she’s in little to no pain. Blood draws are minimally invasive procedures.”

“I don’t think she can consent to anything in her current state,” the King defended. “I demand you stop at once.”

Linhardt sighed and resumed undoing the bandages. 

So, his physician did not want to let this specimen go, even if that specimen had once been their professor. The tenacity made him a wonderful researcher, but at times, a terrible person. 

“What if I tried to find a solution for her condition, too?” he tried, obviously not wanting to lose access to Byleth or to his research. “She’s more cognizant than you think.”

Claude narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want anyone to touch her unless I’m there.”

“Going to the catacombs twice a day? That’s going to be too much for your body,” Linhardt scoffed lightly, a concerned frown wrinkling his face. 

“I’m the King, someone can carry me.”

“Touché. Well, have a look.”

With Claude having made his mind up, it seemed Linhardt was too lazy to argue further. He’d won this disagreement. But then Claude looked at his arm.

The limb looked… supple. Freshly exposed to the air, his nerves were going crazy with pain, but his skin, his muscles and the tendons underneath were as strong as they had been before the wasting disease had taken hold. The entire lower half of his left arm had the feel of a new scar, tight and hot to the touch. His fingers flexed in a cascade. The tendons were woefully stiff but he could feel the vitality that had returned there. Even his precious callouses, earned from a lifetime of plucking a bow, had returned.

Claude was lost in a mix of emotion, and tears pricked his eyes. 

Linhardt said nothing, drinking in his reaction.

“...She savaged your arm to the bone, by the way.” 

He gestured to Claude’s newly healed wound. Reaching for a small jar, he emulsified the contents between his palms before gently gliding it over Claude’s new, pinked skin. By the scent of herbs in the air, Claude knew it was a burn salve. It provided instant relief. 

“Savaged?”

“Gods, you really are out of it today, Claude,” Lin teased. “Does my resolve make sense now? We can’t exactly have a dragon-woman eat the King alive.”

“Do what you must.”

Linhardt was smug. “ _Fantastic_.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This toes the line of blood magic.”
> 
> “Indeed, it does.” Linhardt spun on his heel, and his smile was mesmerizing--so strong was his desire to find a cure for the King that even his disgust of blood could not dampen his enthusiasm. “You didn’t complain about that when I first proposed it.”
> 
> Claude hummed. It was a means to an end, wasn’t it? 
> 
> “You’re right, you’re right. I just... want her.” Claude covered quickly for the slip of the tongue with a clearing of his throat, “free from pain.”
> 
> The Royal Physician raised a brow but held his tongue, and the King was grateful for the discretion.

**Garland Moon, 1220**

The King of Almyra and his Royal Physician chatted as they strode through the grand hall. The airy design of the palace allowed beautiful streams of multi-colored light into every space, and a small flock of pint-sized, glittering palace wyverns always seemed to follow the King, fond of him even if they were barely tame. 

The long-sleeved garment Claude wore did nothing but irritate his still-healing arm and he desperately wanted to scratch it raw; the newly-grown skin had finally lost some of its hypersensitivity, but needed to be kept out of the sun.

One of the braver palace wyverns, a shimmering piebald fellow, landed on his good shoulder and bobbed its head, looking for affection… so, leaning hard on his cane, Claude humored the peppy little friend instead.

“After a thorough examination, we’ve determined she has venom pouches in her cheeks. We’ve been draining her like a snake, twice a day. After identifying the compounds we _think_ are responsible for the regeneration tendencies present in her saliva, we’ve been injecting _that_ into a horse...”

Linhardt was unable to stop himself from delving into the _riveting_ world of antivenoms. Claude sighed. Having seen it done once or thrice, the way vipers were parted from their venom wasn’t exactly... compassionate. The little wyvern sensed the King’s soured mood and flapped off to rejoin its family.

For a moment he idly watched them fight among themselves, admiring the zest a living creature _should_ have, and what he desperately wanted back. Claude gestured for them to continue their walk.

“So, she's awake for that.” It was not a question. 

“The first… dozen times. She’s been resistant so more recently we’ve been injecting a chemical tranquilizer, but the tradeoff is the drain slows to a drip.”

“Can you try _not_ to traumatize her any further, please? A little finesse would be nice.”

“The most _efficient_ process is not always the kindest, your Majesty, but I’ll keep your request in mind.”

Linhardt only used Claude’s title when he was digging in his heels about something, and Claude was not having it.

“Treat her as you would treat me.” Claude’s tone brooked no argument. “As for _her_ treatment, you really believe my plasma should be sufficient?”

“It should react to your crest being activated…. in theory. I’m more confident about _your_ treatment than hers, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

“This toes the line of blood magic.”

“Indeed, it does.” Linhardt spun on his heel, and his smile was mesmerizing--so strong was his desire to find a cure for the King that even his disgust of blood could not dampen his enthusiasm. “You didn’t complain about that when I first proposed it.”

Claude hummed. It was a means to an end, wasn’t it? 

“You’re right, you’re _right_. I just... want her.” Claude covered quickly for the slip of the tongue with a clearing of his throat, “free from pain.”

The Royal Physician raised a brow but held his tongue, and the King was grateful for the discretion.

They had reached the stairwell that spiraled down to the catacombs. Byleth’s scathing, unholy screams echoed to the top and Claude’s stomach clenched. She hadn’t been _this_ upset since she arrived in that filthy box.

Despite his initial hesitance to be carried like an overly large babe, Claude appreciated his palace guards, the tallest and strongest of whom carried him up and down to the catacombs with ease and without complaint.

Upon entering the chamber, the screeching ceased, and its absence was almost painful. Like some kind of livestock, Byleth had been forced inside a small, narrow cage, rendered immobile so Linhardt’s assistants would be able to do as they needed. 

It made Claude’s heart ache, but he had to remind himself that at least she was _here,_ no matter the form.

Byleth seemed bored by the dozen or so healers whirring around the room. Oh, but when she saw Claude? Her saucer-like green eyes turned dark with excitement. Transfixed on his every move, her tail ticked back and forth gently.

Despite the attack some weeks ago, he did not feel any fear toward Byleth. Perhaps that made him a fool.

“Huh.” The physician was taken aback at the change in his subject’s demeanor. “Out of everything we’ve tried, it seems _you’re_ the best tranquilizer.”

Claude’s heart fluttered at that.

“Hello, my friend.”

Byleth rumbled affectionately in a peculiar, low timbre that heated his chest. It was not unpleasant.

“Install the IV,” Linhardt ordered. Focused on Claude, she made a peep of discomfort as the needle was inserted in her forearm, her little wings flapping and refolding in the restricted space of her cage. Most importantly, she did not snarl and she did not scream. 

Before Linhardt could bark a worried warning, the King leaned in so their foreheads touched, and he whispered urgently, “I’m going to make you better, okay?”

When he pulled away, the flash of understanding he sought in Byleth’s eyes did not exist. Only an animalistic yearning, like a wyvern whelp separated from its mother. 

A large, elegant glass vial had been mounted on a rolling rack, and a rubber tube attached to the IV which was fastidiously bandaged to Byleth’s scaled forearm to keep it in place. 

An exam bed had been set up near Byleth’s cage. No explanation needed; Claude carefully laid his weary body down onto the cold leather and waited his turn. He stared at the vaulted ceiling while he raked his fingers over the tendons of his revitalized arm, testing the muscle there. If this worked… could he be saved? Could _she_?

A gentle hand grasped his wrist, coaxing his arm flush to his side. Time for his own IV. He wasn’t as good of a sport about the needle as Byleth had been, hissing and whining as they poked and prodded for a vein. Eventually they found one, leaving Claude with a very tender forearm. 

The sound of metal buckles startled him. “What is this? Linhardt, explain.” 

The assistants froze in place, wide leather belts in their hands. The more senior of the two glanced at Linhardt.

The physician gestured for his assistants to continue their task.

“We’re starting with a diluted treatment, but based on your previous reaction to her saliva, chances are this will be _highly_ unpleasant. The straps are but a precaution.”

Claude sighed and eased back. “Fine.”

Another assistant (just _how_ many did Linhardt have?), a young woman with a serious face who reminded him of Ingrid, took up her post by his side, preparing his treatment.

Claude turned so he could see Byleth. She was watching him back. His heart thrummed nervously. Would this really help, or would it hurt? Would it do anything at all? 

A flock of mages arrived. From elsewhere in the cavernous room drifted Linhardt’s command, “Begin.” 

Claude’s hairs stood on end at the energy directed at his body, and a warming as his circulation was pushed along by their assistance--an effort to trigger his crest. A moment after that, another command: “Start the drip.”

It only took a few seconds of the serum being administered before Byleth shrieked and rattled her cage. It didn’t give Claude much hope about his own fate at all.

The sensation was cold, but not unpleasant. Claude waited a few moments before reporting to his physician, “This is tolerable.”

Linhardt tipped awkwardly over the table so Claude could see his face. “...You’re only getting saline right now,” he said with a devious smirk.

“Ah.”

“Administer the dose.” A green, faintly glowing vial was inserted at the base of the IV contraption with a click. The liquid dripping gradually through the tube took on the same glow.

It was as if Linhardt had recited a curse.

Searing pain that ripped through his weaker arm, then spread hotly through his heart, then the rest of his body. A pulse of power bloomed in his chest as his crest activated to combat the invasion. Byleth screamed. Her howl shook his bones.

He tipped into darkness.

**Garland Moon, 1214**

“You’re eight now! Excited to spend your whole summer with me?”

“Most certainly!” The blonde boy said with pride, swinging the bucket full of brushes and bottles at his side. The top of his head was already at Claude’s shoulder. The Almyran King wondered how quickly Nikolai might surpass Dimitri’s height. He had Byleth’s green eyes. How bittersweet. 

“This is so fascinating,” Nikolai cooed, taking in the honeycomb of hand-hewn caverns that lined the wall. The path they walked was wide enough for exactly two wyverns walking side by side; only a stone railing kept a deep drop off the side of the mesa. “What are these for?”

As if on cue, a stocky brown wyvern popped out of the highest cave to glide out over the city. Nikolai gasped in delight. “Oh!!”

Seeing Nikolai absorb facets of Almyran culture always delighted Claude.

“That’s right. According to legend, the most elite riders used to share a cave with their wyvern. Not too many war wyverns left these days, though--”

“I can share with Giblet?”

Claude laughed--both at the ineloquent name of Nikolai’s wyvern and at the boy’s earnestness. In that way, he was just like Dimitri.

“If you really, _really_ want to, but I’m not sure it’s comfy.”

His nephew was vibrating with happiness, and set down his bucket to test the nearest set of handholds. Up and away he went, waving at Claude from the top. He was fearless. 

“Hey hold up, I’m old,” Claude howled at the kid, but in reality it didn’t take him much longer to reach the wide, stony landing.

Inside the cavern, Claude found Nikolai examining everything--not that there was much to discover. On one side, a nook had been incised for a rider’s bedspace, and the bare center of the cave had a shallow, smooth depression--generations of wyverns had napped here. 

With his hands in his pockets, Claude centered himself in the room while Nik explored every nook of the simple accommodations. 

“This is incredible!” the kid called from inside the sleeping nook.

“Ready to move in, huh?” Claude laughed. Suddenly self-conscious, Nikolai rolled out of the nook. 

Claude sat on the edge of the cliff to gaze out over the city. _His_ city. His home. His country, and tens of thousands of people who could live peaceful lives. Change was slower than he’d like, but it felt like Almyra was on the verge of a golden age. 

“Check out the view,” he said after his nephew joined him. “This rookery was carved so wyvern warriors of old could protect the capital at a moment’s notice.”

Nikolai was quick to sit beside him. “Can _I_ join the royal guard?”

“You want to be a Barbarossa? Hmm, you might want to talk to your dads about that, your Princeliness.”

Nikolai flashed a smile, used to the silly titles Claude spewed at him, completely unaware they had been terms of endearment for his father, long ago. “They said I can become whatever I want.”

“Is that right?” Claude said, tipping back on his hands. “You’re a lucky lad.”

“Being in the wyvern guard would be lots of fun, but I want to travel all over the world.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Claude paused dramatically. “That’s my dream, too! Maybe someday, we can traverse the world together.”

“But you’re the _King_.”

“Yeah. But not forever. My family is big... so big, I don’t think I’ve met all my cousins. Perhaps someone else can take the throne when I’m ready for an adventure.”

Claude could see this information was blowing Nikolai’s mind. “Father said he’ll be the last King of Fodlan. He and Papa are working hard for Duscur, too,” he said.

Ah, secede the throne to a democracy and let your child live a life (mostly) untouched by the monarchy of old. It was, perhaps, the kindest thing Dimitri could do. After all, Dimitri had been groomed for the role since birth; did he know how to be anything _other_ than a King?

“You and Nima with Giblet and I. We could go anywhere, everywhere! Maybe we can find Mama--” Nikolai turned red at the slip-up.

“P-please don’t tell my fathers I called her that,” the kid stammered. “I meant, Miss Byleth.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t spill secrets, only collect them,” the King answered with a wink. Nikolai hid his face in his hands. Claude ruffled the kid’s sandy blond hair.

Though he smiled, his heart ached for this child. 

The admission was shocking, especially given the length Dimitri and Dedue had gone to honor Byleth’s prepartum wishes. When had Nikolai and Byleth spent enough time together for him to be comfortable enough to call her _Mama_?

His heart ached, selfishly.

Shortly after Nikolai’s third birthday, Byleth was supposed to arrive in Almyra. They’d exchanged a half dozen letters. But on the day she was supposed to make her grand entrance (rather, the grand entrance he’d meticulously planned for her), she hadn’t. Nor the day after that, or after that.

“What happened to her?”

“...I don’t know, kiddo.” 

* * *

**Garland Moon, 1220**

His mind was swimming with dreams of wyverns and battle. They were nightmares, really, vivid and terrifying. In it, his wyverns had been whipped into a frenzy, shrieking while dodging the torrents of fire that rained from the sky, swallowing up the capital city before his very eyes. It was a threat a King could not protect his citizens from. Despair set in as the burning rain came for him, too.

The King of Almyra startled awake with a sharp inhale.

It was not a torrent of fire. Hot, fetid breath whooshed in his face. 

“Ah, _Nima_.”

It took a moment for his heart rate to drop. She mouthed his hand gently, like a whelp nibbling on its mother’s tail. A tube was still attached to his arm, steadily administering a cold and innocuous solution.

“Oh good, you’re awake. She refused to leave your side,” Linhardt reported, obviously annoyed by the wyvern’s presence. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Claude commented, reaching up to scratch the beloved white wyvern under her chin. With a low whistle the king gave permission for the great white beast to relax and play with her packmates. The beast flitted away. His physician sighed. 

Claude did not want to waste a moment more. His mind was racing with possibilities.

“So?”

“As I feared, your body reacted most violently to the treatment before you slipped into a coma.”

“How long was I asleep this time?”

“A week.”

Claude’s eyes grew wide. “ _Amazing_ ,” he said, clearly impressed. The king tried to sit up in his bed and failed at even this simple task. Ah! But he did not _ache_.

“You’re obviously feeling some weakness from the lengthy bedrest. You’ll feel better with gentle exercise in a few days,” Linhardt offered.

“Did the treatment work? Do you have a hand mirror?”

Claude’s attendant was quick to scramble for one, but Linhardt was quicker to comment, “A hand mirror? That would ruin the reveal, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s good news, right?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” Lin replied saucily. 

Now aware he had visible progress to bask in, and he looked forward to it _very_ much.

His IV was removed, and he was provided with a tall glass of cold mint tea. The brew had been sweetened with a decadent quantity of honey. Claude gulped it gratefully and uncouthly. It felt like life-giving nectar.

When his bare feet touched the marble floor his legs buckled more than expected, but having anticipated this chain of events, Linhardt was at his side with his cane and a steady hand. Together they walked to the oversize mirror that separated the bath from the rest of his bedroom, and Lin helped him shrug out of his delicate silk robe. 

The King stared dumbly at his own reflection. “Did you replace my mirror with something magicked?” 

Unfortunately for Claude’s joke, Linhardt was done with conversation. He buzzed around the King, measuring the circumference of Claude’s limbs, testing his flesh with calipers, testing his pulse and the sound of his heart, jotting down notes in between. Meanwhile, Claude was stunned into silence, admiring, well, himself.

He stood tall again, and easily. The hollows of his cheeks had filled back in, and a handsome smile revealed the dimples he was familiar with. Soft, weak flesh had been replaced by the taut muscle of youth--indeed, the treatment made his body appear as if he were fifteen again, gawky over his broad-shouldered frame.

Such a sight was something he’d never expected to see again--no one would, but Byleth had given him a second chance. His arm, while still scarred from the attack, seemed to trouble him no longer.

Supple fingers swept through his steely gray hair. It had grown in thick, flopping just as he’d remembered. He was in dire need of a shave; a dense crop of silver stubble lined his jaw. He could safely consider himself a silver fox instead of a grandfather.

King of Vanity? So be it. 

“On the scale, if you would.”

Claude was pulled back into orbit. “Ah yes, of course,” he said.

The polished brass was cold on his feet, colder than the marble had been. Linhardt shuffled the fine weights back and forth, finessing the measurement. The numbers earned raised brows and a satisfied look before being transcribed. 

Closer to the mirror, the light caught a fine smattering of raised spots on his flanks, symmetrically cascading along his ribcage and adonis belt to the band of his undergarments, and presumably... lower...as well. Claude did not like that. “What are these?” he piped up.

One could see the alarm bells ringing in Linhardt’s head at the request. A tiny but powerful magnifying glass was pulled from one of his pockets and he angled Claude toward the light before leaning in close. 

“I don’t know… those are usually from old age?” Linhardt’s casual dismissal provided no comfort. It was rare to see the healer stumped when faced with medical maladies. “Perhaps it is genetics. You _are_ half Fodlani after all, and our genetic stock can be...well, for lack of a better term, inbred. Bad luck maybe, but they’re harmless.”

Claude did not take kindly to this suggestion. Not because of insult against his lineage, but the lack of initiative. 

“The Royal Physician is refusing the King?” Claude huffed, stewing in selfish feelings. “C’mon, Lin--” 

“It’s not something I’m particularly invested in solving when _this_ ,” in the mirror, the physician gestured from the top of Claude’s head to his feet and back again with clear exasperation, “is right in front of me. I’m sure you understand.”

The deep breath Claude drew to sigh in annoyance felt... marvellous. Perhaps it was bratty, but Claude felt the need to push the subject. “If we’re coming this far, might as well fix _everything--_ ”

Linhardt waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m sure _you_ of all people can devise an ointment to discourage them,” he offered.

Ah, so they _could_ be removed.

“All right, I’ve gotten the metrics I wanted. To the bath with you.” 

He disrobed--taking a small joy in being able to do so by himself again--and with assistance, washed his hair. After scrubbing every centimeter of his skin (it turned out those annoying marks _did_ go all the way down _there_ ), another helping hand eased him into the hot water, and in the deep stone bath he remained until his fingers and toes had pruned. 

Wrapped up warm and dry, Claude padded into the main section of his quarters to find and a puff-sleeved, pale gold jacket and matching slacks had been laid out on his bed, along with a belt ending in pom-poms. How nostalgic. Linhardt’s idea? Perhaps it would help spark something in Byleth’s memory. 

An attendant helped him dress, for he was still too weak. Claude smoothed his hands over the silk. He hadn’t worn this style since the war. He had a sudden yearning to take to the skies. Riding Nima would be too much on his body, but in a few months? 

The physician was waiting for him just outside the doors, a wheeled, wooden chair was waiting for him. 

“Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” Linhardt complimented, then patted the backrest of the empty seat. 

“I can walk,” Claude said, indicating his cane. 

“Perhaps. But you _shouldn’t_.”

With a sigh, Claude sank into the velvet cushions and felt instant relief on his joints.

“Fine,” he commented idly. Linhardt kindly pushed him along. 

With nothing better to do, Claude found himself unable to stop playing with the cascade of pom poms at the end of his belt, which led him to notice that even his _fingernails_ had begun to revitalize, growing smooth and strong where they emerged from his digits. He owed Byleth so much.

“...Did she fall into a coma?”

“Yes. She slept for a few days under supervision. It was rather... violent.”

“Hmm.” Did Byleth attack someone? Claude didn’t _think_ she’d do that--but he was basing the assumption on the _human_ Byleth he used to know, not the chimera Linhardt had procured. A moment of silence passed between them. “Was someone hurt? That doesn’t inspire confidence.” 

“Nothing like that. Now Claude.... I _won't_ spoil the surprise. She’s stable and responding well, and I’m leaving it at that.”

He swallowed the feeling of excitement; the implications made his pulse quicken.

Claude left the wheelchair behind, and cradled in the arms of his strongest guardsman, they descended the winding stairs. Linhardt brandished the King’s cane as he led the way.

“Mmm...it’s so quiet,” Claude whispered, matching the serenity of the catacombs.

“Indeed. She’s stopped most of the screaming behavior. While she isn’t without the occasional outburst, she’s become quite amicable.”

Had the treatment been as miraculous for Byleth as it had for himself? Sure, he’d find out in just a few moments more, but his ever-curious mind wanted Linhardt to divulge a juicy tidbit or two, and it was obvious the physician _wanted_ to share. “Oh?”

“Even the pallor of her skin has changed. Who knows what she was being fed before. We’ve been able to--”

Linhardt cut his own sentence short, stamping the ground with Claude’s cane in mock frustration. “I’m _not_ going to spoil the surprise! I’m on to you, Khalid Al-Palmyra.”

The physician rarely used his Almyran name. The King laughed warmly. 

The doors to Byleth’s chamber were opened, spilling golden light into the corridor. Khalid’s sinuses tingled with the rush of stale, warm air and dust. 

“Thank you,” Khalid said as his guardsman set him on his feet. Linhardt supplied his cane. 

Dust glittered in the beams of afternoon sunlight that streamed through the skylights. 

Upon the humble bed, Byleth had swaddled herself in a blanket of silk. In this light, she glowed as if she were an ethereal being, with only her head poking out. She looked like a present waiting to be unwrapped. _A gift fit for a King_ , the selfish thought pervaded his mind.

The rats nest of hair she’d arrived with had been trimmed and tamed, falling neatly past her shoulders in shaggy layers. 

“Byleth,” he murmured, coaxing encouragement. The tips of her pointed ears twitched, and she turned, eyes of green emerald glittering familiar as she regarded the royal visitor waiting at the door of her cage. Curiously, the horns that had threatened to grow before had now sprouted, cresting steeply back over her skull. 

She stepped down from the bed. Tall, then taller. He took a sharp breath.

Claude’s heart thudded even harder in his chest. He was committed to recording every detail to memory. Her poise, that small smile... could she speak again? What she might say? 

Byleth strode forward, and the blanket slipped from her shoulders, catching on her tail before pooling on the floor behind her.

It appeared as if someone had broken and reformed her chimera body dozens of times, into a cruel illusion of a human being. _This_ was the result of the treatment, using _his_ blood?

Claude felt sick with anger. This was not what he wanted. This reality was crueler than before, and it was his fault. He could only imagine the pain she might be experiencing, and wondered despite that, how she could smile so _brightly_.

With gentle tugging he tossed his gloves to the ground. Her little wings fluttered. Even without seeing Linhardt’s face, he _felt_ the physician’s anxiety spike. However, the need to physically comfort his oldest friend was stronger than the concern for his own well-being. 

As he had done many times over the course of their years together, he extended his hand in friendship. The heat of her palm butting against his took him by surprise.

Their fingers entwined.

Before his mind flashed Spring: A sprout emerging from the damp earth. The tiny blooms of an olive tree awakening. Meltwater swelling a stream. The scent of green rolling over the wide Almyran plain. The crisp sensation of a new beginning. The warmth of--

The King flinched like he’d touched a hot kettle. Linhardt had interrupted the flow.

Everything faded away around them, but _she_ was still here. 

His heart was thundering in his chest. Was it terror or excitement?

He _had_ to find out. Desperately, Claude reached for her hand. Their fingertips brushed but nothing happened. 

Claude was plopped onto the nearby exam bed. A seasick sensation rolled over his body then dissipated just as quickly. Linhardt was talking, talking, talking. Claude couldn’t hear anything but got the distinct feeling of wanting him to shut up anyway. A bright light was flashed in his eyes. Annoying. 

He stared at Byleth while he deciphered what was real and what was not. It _all_ felt real. He was in the catacombs. Wasn’t he? He still felt the sensation of his boots gently sinking into mud while they’d strolled through the field-- 

“What is your name?” Linhardt’s exasperated voice pierced the veil.

Claude answered, “ _Byleth_.”

“ _No_. Y _our_ name.”

“Khalid Al-Palmyra. I’m forty-seven years old, I’m the King of Almyra and the former heir to the Leicester Alliance,” the King said, annoyed. Byleth was pacing frantically on the other side of the bars, tail whipping in mirrored frustration.

“Good enough? Let me talk to her again--” He tried to shoulder away from the assistant healers but was too weak to put up a proper fight. 

“ _Okay_.” Linhardt took a deep breath, pushing a hand to Claude's chest. “...There was no talking, Claude. You stared at her, unresponsive, for five minutes and twenty seven seconds.”

An eerie scream disturbed the conversation.

All attention swung to Byleth. 

The malformed chimera clutched her head. Her eyes had taken an eerie glow, trembling in their sockets, and then she collapsed. 

Claude’s wyverns were howling in the gardens above. The smallest ones started to bash themselves against the thick glass of the skylights. Dozens and dozens of them, incessantly. 

Dread burned in his chest. In all his years he’d never experienced or read about this kind of aggressive swarming behavior. 

A reverberating thud sounded through the chamber as a large wyvern pounced on the glass.

Though it was obscured through the frosted panels, he knew that silhouette as well as he knew his own reflection.

 _Fuck_.

“Get her out of there!” Claude bellowed.

Yet before anyone could act, a shower of glass rained on the room. His beloved Nima’s head dipped through the iron framing menacingly. With eyes that glowed green, she echoed Byleth’s frantic calls.

“ _Nima_! Stand down.” 

No response.

He whistled a dismissal.

Nothing.

Frantically, he tried a half dozen times more. No matter the command Claude issued to the beast, it went ignored.

The wyvern's neck extended to take the unconscious Byleth in her maw, swallowing her whole before she disappeared back into the gardens and up into the afternoon sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels good to be back. 💖 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this update! What was your favorite part of this chapter? 🥺

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experimental story for me--I had a lark at 3am and had to follow it. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Follow me on twitter if you'd like to chat! I make sweet & spicy FE3H art/comics and post dumb FE thoughts, 18+ only please! @btwnskyandsea


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